


Swamp Lily

by arenoseAnima



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cannibalism, F/F, Transformation, Violent Sex, dubcon, swamp monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:57:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arenoseAnima/pseuds/arenoseAnima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A torrid, gory romance between a human woman and the bog beast that loves her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swamp Lily

You don't know how long you've been there. Long enough for your naked skin to become used to the heat and humidity of the swamp. Long enough for the heavy organic smell of dirt and plants to become familiar. Long enough to know the rhythms of your captor's daily routine. She never comes out in the day. You sleep then, as best you can while bound to a tree with your wrists above your head and a vine crammed in your mouth to keep you from calling for help - or from biting her.

You have plenty of chances to bite. As far as you can tell, you are her sole source of entertainment. She probes your parted lips with her claws, touches your hips, your waist, your sides. She isn't always gentle - in fact, she almost never is. Her claws rip and tear, clumsy and curious and so strong she could end your life in an instant if she became bored of you. But it seems that all you have to do to amuse this swamp beast is squirm when she prods you and moan into your gag when her hands wander to the more _delicate_ parts of your body.

At least her schedule is predictable. As soon as the sun goes down, she rises from the swamp. You can hear the ooze and water sluicing off her in waves, slopping down amidst her sucking footsteps. The sound is awful. Every step and splat sends a shudder up your spine and prickles of apprehension and anticipation over your bare skin. The beginning of each night is no different from any other. You see her vague shape, a blot of ink against a field of flashing fireflies and moonlight glinting off of stagnant pools. The yellow lights of her eyes flare up. She must be able to see in the dark, you think; she finds you unerringly every time, leading with her wide, thin mouth.

Her taste is heat and musk, like a corpse buried in peat. You can't move when her lips touch yours around the gag. You're scared for your life, aching, numb; she knows it, and she enjoys it. Her sour swamp breath washes over your face. She hurts you like a child hurts her doll. You are at her mercy. Even if you did fight back, the monstrous strength of her hands alone would be enough to keep you pinned. She could kill you in a dozen different ways. But she doesn't. She hurts you only until you shriek through your gag, then stops, her face shifting in the dark from an invisible expression to one equally hard to discern. You can only imagine the reactions of your friends and family and coworkers to your predicament, to your agony and confusion. You're tied up at the mercy of a monster, and you haven't even struggled. The vile fascination of her is keeping you here.

The thought of your real life almost hurts, in a dull, throbbing kind of way - not the _hereness_ of the wounds she inflicts on you. Each day runs together like mud into water. Everything you left behind seems so far away now, so inconsequential, so silly. You wonder if anyone is looking for you. The thought of a fruitless search is _amusing,_ in fact. You can't hear or see any hint of civilization from your tree, and you doubt even a sustained search would turn up anything except your car, which you presume is abandoned somewhere on the road.

 A sick delight wells up inside as you think of their worry. Your boss thought you were incompetent. Your coworkers never paid you any heed. Even your family could scarcely manage to send you a birthday card. Joke's on them, you think. You're experiencing something they can't even imagine.

Strangely, the thought of the people left behind you is what makes you realize the undeniable pleasure you feel at the hands of your captor. Nothing in your life ever gave you this kind of rush, the satisfaction of all your worries flowing away into the living darkness of the swamp. Even the pain makes you feel good.

And you realize your captor doesn't intend to kill you, anyway. Whatever she is, she seems to understand the need for nourishment; she takes off your gag only to feed you, and if she was planning your death you doubt she would bother. She hunches before you in the night and feeds you scraps of raw fish wrapped in seaweed - not the most delicious fare, but you get one meal a day and you won't waste it with nausea. The pads of her fingers are pleasantly rough. They brush your lips, and once, when you lick at them thinking they're your next morsel, she laughs a low, syrupy, rumbling laugh. Her other hand scruffs through your ratty hair. You get a few extra scraps that night - fresher, bloodier ones with a tang of copper.

You don't question your treat.

The next evening, when she unties the vine from your head, you try to speak, to ask her name or her purpose. The thought of begging never even comes to you. Not that it would have done you any good; nothing comes out but a croak. You clear your disused throat as she watches you, her head tilted in feral curiosity.

Nothing comes, no matter how hard you try. The words simply won't come. The effort makes you cough; you hear something splatter onto the ground from your lips, and the bindings are wrenching at your wrists as your knees buckle. All you can think is: you're going to die alone, here in the swamp.

Only you aren't alone. The swamp creature cuts your restraints with her claws. You crumple into the mud, wheezing, and with a _glop_ it swallows your hands to the wrist. When you pull them out, you see how long and ragged and filthy your nails are, and how moist moss clings to your skin.

The blood you cough into the mire is redder than you remember, redder than the shreds of meat she fed you on the tips of her fingers. She lets you finish, though it takes you long minutes to regain your breath. You stare up at her slouched figure in the dark. Strips of lichen and seaweed and God only knows what hang off her and sway in the muggy breeze. You could run. She's just standing there. You could struggle to your feet in the swamp and run, naked and lost and alone stumbling through the trees until you found someone who would - do what? Scenes of exposure, murder, starvation, _worse_ all flicker through your head.

She offers you a hand. Her arms reach so low she doesn't even have to stoop.

You put your small, filthy palm in hers. Her fingers enclose your hand up to the wrist, and she helps you to your feet, letting you brace yourself against her. It's the first time you've touched her of your own accord. When you're up, knees still weak, she presses her other hand to your shoulder and guides you back against the tree.

You expect to be bound again, or for her to pin you there with her body. Instead, she presses her mouth to yours - without her invasive tongue, without reeking breath sliding over your skin. Only her lips, thin and slick, until you part your own and let her taste fill you. You don't know where this burst of feeling came from - gratitude, maybe, or something a little darker.

There's still blood at the corners of your mouth, and she licks it away with a low growl. The feel of it travels through you like rain dripping through leaves, down to nourish roots you didn't know needed nourishment.

Her reaction when you put your hands at her waist is immediate. Her mouth slides wet and slippery down your neck, sucking along your pulse, leaving welts in its wake. She hooks her chin against your shoulder and smells your scent; the huff of her breath against you sends a shiver up your spine. Her claws are just as sharp as ever - you can feel them opening your skin, blood running down your stomach. You drag your fingers in it and suck them clean, then kiss her again, and again and again.

You touch her breasts underneath the damp silt coating her, and she rumbles at the feel of your skin. You squeeze them, run your fingertips over her nipples, push your nails in until blood stains her moss. Just below, her ribs show through in xylophone waves, and you trace each one before you bend to kiss them. You taste her blood in your mouth. It tastes so good, rich and hot, and as you're reeling she takes your hand and puts it between her legs. You touch bracken-wetness and heat. As you watch, tiny white flowers peep open in her grassy pelt; you greet them with your lips, and they dissolve sugar-sweet on your tongue. She rakes you again, marking you further, harder, and you turn your wrist against her thigh to leave matching gashes.

She shudders and pushes your hand away, the flowers vanishing. At first you think you've done something wrong, but she sinks to her knees and presses her mouth to the lacerations she's left, licking up the blood. She's all teeth and tongue, and you can feel strange warmth spreading through you, starting from the cuts. Her mouth is hungry; each lick seals your wounds with a green glister. Your hands are bunched in her soaking hair, pulling, guiding her, showing her how to hurt you with her jagged fangs. When you push her downwards, you're almost certain you feel her smile against your thigh.

All her hard work is rewarded soon enough. You arch your back hard enough to make your tree creak in protest, and the sharp sparks on your slit turn to hot, adoring breaths. It takes a few moments for the purple blotches to fade from your vision, but when they do, the first thing you look at is her. She's cradling her cheek on your thigh, her eyes closed; you can see her face now, picking out the shape of her nose against the velvet night, her lips and brow and eyelashes. She's... perfect. Blood drips from her serrated teeth, beads of moisture from the air glitter on her heavy brow, and her cheeks are spread with mud and something with an oily sheen in the moonlight.

Your eyes focus a bit more. There's a reflection on her skin - two golden lights, close together, flickering ever so slightly. She kisses the tail end of one of your cuts; the green shine over it has grown into tufts of moss in which you can sense tiny flowerbuds.

You touch the back of her head and make a noise in your throat. It gurgles thick and sticky. Her smile grows, wide and sweet and bloody, and you hold her as she kisses her way up to your lips. The night is young, after all, and there is plenty left to do.


End file.
